Lost
by lilidelafield
Summary: Napoleon is missing and his apartment is a shambles. Where is he? What has happened? Written for the short affair challenge on Section VII at LiveJournal.


Illya knocked loudly for the third time on his partner's front door, but still no answer; even to their private, coded knock. He frowned. The likelihood of Napoleon being up and out already was extremely low. Napoleon was a man who loved his luxuries. And at this time in the morning, that meant staying in bed until the last possible moment. Napoleon was not such a lover of the winter cold as was Illya.

Finally deciding to err on the side of caution, he fumbled for the key his partner had given him, and unlocked the door. The alarm had not been set. He instinctively reached for his gun. What had happened here? The apartment, often slightly untidy, looked a complete shambles. Even the cushions had been removed from the sofas and were now strewn all over the floor. The books had been pushed from the shelves and lay in a heap beside the scattered cushions. A cup of coffee only half drunk sat on the coffee table. Illya checked out its contents. Stone cold.

"Napoleon! Napoleon, where are you?"

There was no response. Illya swiftly searched the entire apartment, even inside some of the cupboards. No sign at all. Finally, he drew out his communicator and tried to raise Napoleon on that. There was no response. He was aware that Napoleon's communicator was working, but there was no answer to it. Worriedly, Illya switched channels.

"Open channel D."

"Channel D. Waverly here. Is everything all right, Mister Kuryakin?"

"Sir, has Mister Solo reported in this morning yet?"

"Not yet. Why, is there a reason for concern?"

"I'm not sure sir. He's not answering his communicator, it's too early for him to have had breakfast yet, and his apartment is empty and it looks like a hurricane has blown through."

"He could be…er…staying over with a friend, Mister Kuryakin."

Illya shook his head.

"No sir. Napoleon knows we are due to fly to Frankfurt this morning. He would not…he would make sure he is ready for duty on time, sir. I'm going to take a look around the area. I'll be in touch. Kuryakin out."

He flicked his communicator off and taking another calculating look round the room, he left the apartment, carefully setting the alarms and locking the door behind him.  
Illya decided the first place to look would be the rear of the building, where the dustbins…no, sorry, trashcans were stored. He mentally corrected himself. In contrast with the posh looking building itself with its well-kept exterior and polished floors and bannisters, the rear was simply a yard, dusty and unkempt, about twenty or more trashcans, in a neat row, many of them overflowing. From the end of the row, the area relating to the penthouse, Napoleon's apartment, Illya could hear faint sounds of scrabbling and panting. He hurried over.

The trashcan was lying on its side, its contents strewn all around, old empty milk cartons, vegetable peelings, takeaway boxes…  
Illya put a hand over his mouth to hide a smile. Now he knew where his friend had disappeared to. All that could be seen of Napoleon Solo were the soles of his black slippers protruding from the rim, sounds of mutterings and frustrated oaths occasionally reaching Illya's ears.

"Napoleon, what are you doing in there? Setting up a second home?"

There was sudden silence, and then an awkward shuffling as Napoleon made his way out of the can backwards, on his hands and knees. When he finally emerged, his once red dressing gown was covered in dirt and smears, his face and hands dirty and grimy, his hair standing up on end, and his eyes frantically searching the ground, in a fever of agitation. As he looked like he was about to drop to his knees once more, Illya grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Napoleon, what is it? What have you lost? Aside from your marbles that is?"

"Ha ha, very funny, Illya. I have to find it! She'll kill me!"

Illya was confused.

"Who will kill you? Find what? Will you please talk to me? We have a plane to catch this morning remember, and you look like your shower is going to take a while."

Napoleon hung his head.

"I forgot about that. I'll have to get on the phone and apologize…again!"

"Apologize to who? What have you lost my friend? Perhaps I can help you to search."

"The ring! Aunt Amy's ring, Illya! It kept sliding off her finger, so I promised her I would get it downsized for her. She loves this ring. It was a gift from someone special when she was a girl…and now I've lost it! She'll never forgive me!"

Napoleon dropped to his knees once more and started rooting once again through the papers and cartons all over the floor. Illya experienced the unusual sensation of not knowing whether to laugh or groan.

"Napoleon, you did forget! You were drunk! I told you that you were drunk, and that you would forget and you denied it!"

He looked up briefly from his frantic searching.

"Denied what Illya? And I'm not drunk!"

Illya gave in finally and laughed.

"Napoleon, you were drunk three nights ago at the Purple Unicorn. You got up to dance and you gave ME Aunt Amy's ring for safekeeping. You asked me to take it to the jeweler for you the following morning. I picked it up again on my way here. I thought you would want to take it back to her on the way to the airport."

Illya held up the dainty, beautiful diamond ring. Napoleon fell upon it eagerly.

"You've got it!"

He danced around briefly in his excitement, then turned back to his friend.

"Couldn't you have reminded me before I trashed my apartment looking for it?"

Illya clapped an arm round his shoulders.

"Come along my friend, you need a shower, and we have a diamond ring to deliver!"


End file.
